


Tell Tale Heart Mix-Up

by scottieh24



Category: The Tell-Tale Heart - Edgar Allan Poe
Genre: TWP 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 13:32:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5335895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scottieh24/pseuds/scottieh24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The story I chose to rewrite was Tell Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe. I chose this story because I am intrigued by the way Poe’s works are and how he portrays his characters in his short stories. I never was too fond about his endings of the story Tell Tale Heart though because of the way the narrator confesses to the crime. I don’t believe that is the way it would truly happen. I start the story at the point that the cops showed up at his house for the noise complaint. My modifications to the short story changes the end of the story and brings the narrator to a whole new level of crazy. I believe though have added length to the story, which Poe wouldn’t agree with because how he liked very short stories, it creates a new outlook on the narrator and overall changes his obsession with the “old man.: Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Tell Tale Heart Mix-Up

**Author's Note:**

> The story I chose to rewrite was Tell Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe. I chose this story because I am intrigued by the way Poe’s works are and how he portrays his characters in his short stories. I never was too fond about his endings of the story Tell Tale Heart though because of the way the narrator confesses to the crime. I don’t believe that is the way it would truly happen. I start the story at the point that the cops showed up at his house for the noise complaint. My modifications to the short story changes the end of the story and brings the narrator to a whole new level of crazy. I believe though have added length to the story, which Poe wouldn’t agree with because how he liked very short stories, it creates a new outlook on the narrator and overall changes his obsession with the “old man.: Enjoy!

When I had made an end of these vigorous labors, it was four o'clock --still as dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I whipped my head around concerned at who could be knocking at this hour. I went down the stairs two by two, -- I tried to keep calm and push out the thought of being caught. For what had I now to fear other than being caught? I knew I had to keep a cool head for I must have grown a sweat from bringing up all the floor boards. There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. I told them I had many nightmares throughout most nights, and I was surprised this is the first that the neighbors have ever called to comment on it. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. No I did not know when he would return, he spends so much time all over that I assumed that he would come and go as he pleases. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. I even showed him the freshly made bed, which to them made it look as if nobody had stayed there in weeks.  In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room for I knew that the stench of his body would not yet be pungent, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. When I sat it down, I could hear the thump of the wood as the chair legs hit.

We joked and talked about nonsense, the hardships of the night shift and how they were glad that they had came upon a house with no problems. It was a relief to them and they had no clue about what really went on throughout the night. I was incredibly proud of how successful I was with the kill. So perfect that not even these people that were supposed to protect and serve had no idea what I was capable of.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease once they got into the house and saw that there was nothing to be concerned about. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they continued to chat among themselves of familiar things in the detective business. But, ere long, I had to bid them a due for I was exhausted after the night’s events. I felt a ringing in my ears. They thumped loudly. I realized I must have a migraine coming on. I told them it was late-and it was time for them to leave in as light of a tone that I could manage. I held the door open as one by one they walked out my door. I waved them goodbye and locked the door securely. When they have finally left- I realized I did it. Oh I did it I finally succeeded! How so did I get rid of such a vile man. Through the thumping in my head I put it aside so I could celebrate. Through the corridors I danced. I gathered that I have finally gotten rid of the old man. I lain in bed that night and realize what I have done. I go to sleep with a smile on my face.

My first day alone was pure bliss. I awoke with a headache and could hear the thumping in my ears still, but I didn’t car. I knew I was waking up to nobody but me in the house. I didn’t have to worry about seeing the old man or looking at his eye. It was amazing how quick and quiet the day went by. Before I knew it, it was time to go to sleep. I stepped into his room and got down on the floor and pressed my ear to the wood. Just to make sure I couldn’t hear anything. I said goodnight to the old man under the boards and went into my room, climbed into my bed and went to bed once again, happy.

As the days go on I realize how lonely it was without the withering old man. The only thing I could ever concentrate on was the thumping in my head. I had hardly anything to do once he was gone—all my planning and time went into him. I cleaned everything I could. Scrubbed the whole house down head to toe. Went into town for the groceries, but realized I didn’t have to get as many, as I was now only cooking for one. I keep to myself, even though I want to interact, I can’t. I have never been good at people and didn’t know how to talk to them.

I had nothing to do. I tried to convince myself I was better off and that I will find things to pass my days. But will I? How do I know that I will not live out the rest of my days, bored and lonely. I can’t take the madness anymore. I need someone. Anyone. I am not a madman. I tell myself this because I do not know if I can believe it anymore. A sane man would plan out a murder meticulously, but a madman would be the one that would regret it. A madman is the one that tries to figure out where he went wrong, where he could’ve improved. What should I have done different? The thumping continues and seems to be making me not able to think clearly.

Maybe he deserved to live. Maybe he was under the floorboards decaying for no real purpose at all. But he deserved to die. The world that we live in is better off without him. I couldn’t take him anymore, my whole body ached when he was around. But now that he wasn’t around, my whole head thumped. I don’t know which one was actually worse. He had it coming. At least I did it in a sensible way. He could have had a real madman come and do it. He could be tortured to no return. I am not a madman. I tell myself this as I dig up the planks of which I laid him under. It stinks, but I know finally what I must do, why I have been thumping. What needs to be done for things to be right again?

Piece by piece I tried to put him back together. He has decayed but I still know the meticulous cuts that I made to his body and will find a way to put him back to how he was before. It’s the only thing I could think of to do. I couldn’t get the thumping out of my ears. I haven’t slept in what feels like days. I roll in bed listening to the thumping. It gets louder as I get closer to his room. My whole body hears it while I sew his body together back to the way it is supposed to.

Once he is complete, the thumping stops. It is entirely gone. My whole body feels at ease that the old man is actually back and that I can care for him again. The final thing I had to do was the hardest, but I had to do it. For me.

I put him back into his wheelchair, put on his clothes and bring him down into the kitchen. When I finish, he is perfect. Right back to the way he is supposed to be. As I stand back and look at my masterpiece, his arms perfectly sewed back together, his knee caps still in place. His skull, partially showing and even though he had some maggots sticking out of him, he looked like himself. His fingers put back onto his hand, his feet attached to his legs.

And his eyes completely sewed shut.


End file.
